


The Taste of Victory

by Immanuel



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Emperor's Children, Gen, Night Lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immanuel/pseuds/Immanuel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(or, Konrad Cookz)</p><p>Fulgrim invites Night Haunter to a victory feast - held on the eve before battle, in typical III Legion style. He didn't expect him to come, let alone bring a present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: It was the best thing they ever tasted, until they heard what it was made from

“BROTHER!” FULGRIM BEAMED from ear to ear, arms spread wide in welcome. “You decided to come after all!”  
  A hush settled on the feasting hall as the assembled officers of the III Legion turned to behold the newly arrived primarch. In stark contrast to the shimmering silver robes of his brother, Konrad Curze had come in midnight clad, morbid baubles clacking off one another and layered ceramite plate in time with his step. Konrad returned a parody of a smile, the filed-down points of discoloured teeth robbing it of any vestige of sincerity.  
  “Well, brother-mine, it occurred to me that you have been most generous with your hospitality, yet I have given you little but tales.”  
  The captains and lord commanders seated at the high table shifted uncomfortably as they recalled the chilling tales of the Night Haunter which Curze had recounted the last time he had spent time with the Emperor’s Children.  
  “Nostraman folklore is quite fascinating,” replied Fulgrim, wilfully repressing the instinct that told him the stories attached to Konrad’s other identity were more than mere legends to frighten disobedient children.  
  “Much of Nostraman culture is distasteful,” Konrad explained. “I’m not much of a cook, but I hope you will find this the exception to the rule.”  
  Konrad stopped abruptly at the edge of the raised dais that hosted the high table, turning expectantly to the door. A silhouette stood between the Phoenix Guard flanking the baroque doorway, instantly identifiable by the outline of bat-winged crests.  
  Sevatar entered carrying the charred skull of an alien monstrosity, the top of which had been removed to accommodate an equally misshapen mass that Fulgrim supposed was intended to pass as some sort of pie. Like his father, Sevatar wore battle-plate, and, like the Phoenix Guard both at the door and Fulgrim’s back, his choice to conceal his face behind a helm marked him out from the guests. Konrad’s black eyes, narrowed against even the relatively dim lighting, tracked Sevatar as he walked past, mounted the dais and dumped his gift unceremoniously on the high table. The crust split on impact, releasing a trickle of almost-black sauce and a smell of slightly sour meat.  
  “Well, this looks… rustic,” Fulgrim tried, and failed, to keep the distaste from his voice. The aroma had the quality of an abattoir, a more concentrated form of the smell that seemed to cling to Konrad himself.  
  Konrad gave him a lopsided grin, the close-mouthed smile this time one of genuine mirth. “Sev, cut my brother a slice.”  
  “Wait!” Fulgrim protested, staining the silk tablecloth with wine from the goblet he upended as he rose to his feet with arms outstretched. Quicker than mortal eyes could follow, Sevatar had grabbed his chainglaive, sweeping the halberd down and into the pie. The revving chainblade sent chunks of pastry, meat and bone flying in the split second before it ground to a halt several inches into priceless Proconnesian marble.  
  Seated at Fulgrim’s right hand, Eidolon raised his left to motion to the Phoenix Guard not to interfere. Ignoring his presumptuous gesture, they took a step forward and levelled their spears, though the poise was more symbolic than anything else.  
  The dead-eyed stare of Sevatar’s helm was brought level with Fulgrim’s face. The silence of the assembled officers was equal parts tense and indignant as they looked from their furious primarch, his exquisite robes ruined by dark flecks, to the gasping First Captain held a foot above the ground. Fulgrim’s chest heaved with slow, deep breaths. One eye twitched as it fought to ignore the shiny droplet of sauce trembling as it clung to the side of his celestial nose.  
  “How dare you…,” the words set the droplet free to roll down Fulgrim’s cheek and into his open mouth, stopping him mid-sentence. Rage struggled with wonder to find expression on his face. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.  
  Sevatar’s strangled gasps turned to a hoarse laugh as he was allowed to collapse to the floor. His eyes never left Fulgrim as the primarch turned his full attention on the eviscerated pie. A servant hurried forward with a large knife to meet the unspoken request.  
  Konrad, who had remained unmoving as his brother assaulted his First Captain, nodded slowly as Fulgrim took his first mouthful. He ran his tongue over his teeth, rewarded with the copper tang of blood. One clawed hand gently stroked a skull hanging from his waist.  
  “You are too modest, brother. This is,” Fulgrim’s voice shook with emotion, his eyes closed as he savoured every nuance of flavour. Even so overcome, he was unable to admit just how good it was. “This is… _among_ the finest dishes I have ever eaten.”  
  The legionaries in the hall looked askance at one another, sharing a moment of confusion. Seeing this, Fulgrim gestured at the pie with one hand as he put another forkful into his mouth with the other.  
  “You must try it, it’s quite delicious,” he managed between chews, etiquette momentarily forgotten.  
  Hesitantly, the captains and lord commanders accepted the steaming platefuls they were handed, turning their noses up at the charnel house stench. As soon as the first taste touched their lips, however, they had nothing but praise for Curze’s cooking. None of them could quite put their finger on what it was, but all agreed that it was quite indescribably good. For his part, Konrad seemed baffled by the praise being heaped on him by the normally aloof officers. His finger traced each tooth in the rictus grin of the skull as his own features resumed a forced smile.  
  With attention diverted from him, Sevatar took his chance to prise his halberd free from the table. The Phoenix Guard shared a brief glance, resuming a more passive stance once he had stowed the weapon across his back. The blank stare of his helm stayed fixed on Fulgrim. Behind the skull-faced mask, Sevatar’s lip curled in a sneer at the pretentious commentary the Emperor’s Children spewed forth even as they devoured the pie like a pack of starved street dogs. The winking rune on his retinal display reminded him that the broadcast was live, and made him wonder whether his father had added hallucinogens to the recipe to produce a more dramatic response.  
  “Lord Fulgrim.”  
  The new voice was ignored, drowned out by the hubbub in the hall.  
  “ _Lord Fulgrim_.”  
  This time, the vox-distorted boom of the amplified voice brought a semblance of order to the chamber. All eyes, except Sevatar’s, turned to door. One of the Phoenix Guard had stepped forward, evidently having received some report from the nervous naval officer at his side.  
  Fulgrim frowned at the interruption, reluctantly waving at the Legionary to deliver the news as he continued to eat without pause.  
  “My Lord Phoenician, we have received word from Lord Commander Fayle. The enemy has surrendered.”  
  Fulgrim mumbled incoherently through a mouthful of pie.  
  “Well, it seems there are other matters to attend to,” Konrad announced with uncharacteristic eagerness, turning on his armoured heel to stalk from the hall.  
  One of Fulgrim’s perfectly defined eyebrows arched with something between interest and concern as he swallowed. “Sevatar? What did my brother do?”  
  Sevatar shrugged, turning to follow his father.  
  “Sevatarion! Why did they surrender?”  
  He paused in the doorway, as if suddenly struck by an idea. “Maybe they’re worried you’ll eat the rest of them, too.”  
  “What d-,” Fulgrim’s eyes widened, his face visibly blanching even through his make-up.  
  Beneath the First Captain’s humourless chuckle, the Phoenician was sure he heard the distant echo of another, hauntingly mellifluous, laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set shortly after Night Haunter is found by the Emperor in 857.M30 and is being integrated into the Great Crusade alongside Fulgrim - Sevatar has just been made First Captain very recently. Since these events predate Thaddeus Fayle commanding the Archite Palatines during the cleansing of Laeran in 000.M31 by quite some time, the Lord Commander Fayle referred to here is intended to be Thaddeus' ancestor, in my mind his grandmother/father because Lord Commanders would have access to life-prolonging procedures like juvenat treatments, with the Archite Palatines having a hereditary command structure.


End file.
